Song of the Centurion

by Steven A McKay

  “Boring more like,” Bellicus said. “Fine for a while but I’d like to see something of the world, rather than shutting myself off from it.”

  “You’re young though,” Duro noted. “By the time you’re my age you might feel different.”

  “By the Dagda, you’re a big lad.” The companions stopped walking through the rain to see a wizened face peering out at them from an open doorway. “Come in, strangers, out of this terrible weather, before you drown!”

  The man’s accent was, at first, completely impenetrable to Duro who was only just getting used to the language of the Alt Clotans’, but Bellicus shepherded both the centurion and Cai, who looked quite dejected, coat sopping with rain, into the low house gladly.

  “Sit down, before you knock yourself out on my rafters,” the old man commanded, gesturing to an ancient wooden chest carved, quite exquisitely, with strange markings. “Mochan’s my name, and it’s not often we see visitors here in Carngheal.”

  “You use this as a seat?” Duro asked, eyeing the workmanship in wonder. “It’s incredible.”

  “Aye,” the man smiled. “Made it myself, before my sight faded and my hands grew too shaky for such work. Don’t worry, it’ll take the weight of the two of you.” He stroked Cai’s muzzle happily then raised a finger in the air thoughtfully. “I’ve got just the thing for you, boy. Terrible weather this, eh? I’ll be glad when summer comes – feel it worse in my joints the older I get.”

  Chatting away, to himself more than anyone else it seemed, the man went to the far end of the small house and returned carrying a piece of dried meat that was so shrivelled Bellicus couldn’t tell what animal it had come from.

  “Not much use to me,” Mochan gurned, revealing a mouth almost completely bereft of teeth. “But this one will enjoy it, if I’m any judge.” He held the unappetising stick of meat out to Cai, who sniffed it curiously for a moment, and then gently pulled it out of the man’s hand and disappeared into a corner.

  “Powerful beast. Quite the handsome fellow too.”

  “Are you talking about me or my dog?” Bellicus replied, grinning.

  “You’re a man?” the old craftsman asked in mock surprise, eyebrows raised as he peered at the druid. “You’re so big, I thought you must be one of the kelpies folk around here tell tales of.”

  Duro laughed, having heard about kelpies, the mythical, often malevolent, sea-horses that could transform themselves into human form, from Bellicus himself.

  “No, I’m just a man.” The druid shook his head, enjoying this wizened character’s company. “And a thankful one at that, for your hospitality. Cai seems to be enjoying that treat you gave him.”

  “Is that a hint?” Mochan demanded fiercely, although not seriously. “That you want something to eat too? Where are my manners? Feeding the dog before the men. My wife would give me a clip about the ear if she hadn’t died ten years ago.”

  He filled wooden mugs with clear water and placed a loaf of black bread on Duro’s lap.

  “I’m afraid your dog is the only one with meat, for this is all I have to offer until one of my neighbours is good enough to gift me some.”

  “This is fine,” Bellicus assured him, sipping the water, noting again the wonderful carvings on the mug he’d been given. Truly, this man had been a master of his trade in his younger days if these were examples of his work. “And we have meat, here.” He fished in his pack and brought out the rest of the meat Connall had given him in Arachar. “We can share this. What we don’t eat, you can keep.”

  Mochan smiled and helped himself to some of the pork. Bellicus could see Cai still worrying the hard, dried out meat in the corner, and it was gratifying to see the toothless old man doing much the same to the salted pork.

  “What brings you two here, to our little village?”

  “I’m a druid,” Bellicus replied and, for the first time, the old man looked slightly flustered, although his composure soon returned as he waited for his guest to continue. “I’m travelling the lands, gathering tales – folklore – from people like you.”

  “Why?” The look on Mochan’s face suggested he thought such an occupation unfathomable.

  “We druids like to know things,” Bellicus shrugged. “It helps us understand the world and allows us to mould it to our purposes.”

  “What sort of things?” Still, the old man wasn’t convinced and Duro could understand why, for his nature was much the same.

  “Well, the kelpies you mentioned, for example. We gather stories about them and pass the knowledge on through our songs and stories, building a picture of the world so that we might better serve the people.”

  “Stories, eh?” Mochan swallowed what must have been a large chunk of pork given his lack of molars and eyed Bellicus thoughtfully. “You want a story?”

  “Always,” the druid said, covering his mouth with a hand to stifle a belch. “Any local folklore is of interest to me.”

  “Have you heard about the huge stag that’s been seen around here for…” He paused and thought for a moment before continuing, rather unhelpfully. “Years?”

  Bellicus shook his head. There was nothing special about a stag, even a big one. The beasts were seen all over the lands after all, and had provided much sport for kings and warlords since time immemorial. It was quite likely a stag’s head adorned at least one wall in a building within a half-a-day’s walking distance of this hovel. He was too tactful to say any of that though, so he just watched Mochan, waiting for the man to tell his story.

  “It’s white,” said the Dalriadan, and both Bellicus and Duro stopped, mid-chew, wondering if they’d heard him correctly.

  “White?”

  “Aye,” Mochan grinned at the centurion’s question. “And bigger than any normal stag.”

  “You’ve seen it?” Bellicus asked, returning to his meal now that the initial surprise had passed. “Here in Carngheal?”

  “Only once, and, well, as you know already, my eyesight isn’t very good anymore. But I saw it alright, and I’d swear to the Dagda it was real.” He gazed at the wall of his small house, as if reliving that experience, mouth working furiously as he tried to masticate his dinner. “Beautiful creature, to be sure.” His gaze returned to Bellicus at last and he smiled again. “There’s all sorts of tales been spun about that stag, as you can imagine. I don’t believe the more outlandish ones, but you could ask the other folk hereabouts what they’ve heard. You’ll pick up just the sort of story you’re looking for, I’d wager.”

  The druid finished off his food and washed it down with a final long pull of the water Mochan had furnished them with as Duro leaned back against the wall and let out a contented sigh. The house might be small, but, with the rain battering the roof outside and the fire crackling nicely in the hearth, it was certainly cosy.

  “Why hasn’t anyone managed to bring down this great white stag?” Bellicus asked, making their old host jerk upright as if he’d been about to doze off where he sat. “If it’s as magnificent as you say – and I don’t doubt you – why hasn’t the king killed it yet?”

  “Oh he’s tried!” Mochan said, spreading his hands as he went on. “But these lands are vast and it’s not so easy to find one animal, no matter how big it is. King Loarn is a fine warrior though, and he’s vowed to kill the beast one day, and mount its great antlered head over the entrance to the hill fort at Dunadd, like young Cormac the metalworker has done at his workshop, albeit with a smaller trophy. I don’t doubt the king, for he’s a man of his word. Aye, that he is, eh, boy? Did you see Cormac’s stag on the way here? No? Oh well.”

  The warmth of the room seemed to be making the old storyteller ramble and Bellicus decided it was time they took their leave.

  He got to his feet, stooping from habit so his shaved head didn’t clatter against the rafters, and held out his hand to Mochan who grasped it firmly.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” the druid said, and gestured to the pack of dried meat on the table. “I hope that
goes some way to repaying our debt to you. We’ll take our leave now, for it sounds as if the rain’s stopped hammering on your roof.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, lads,” Mochan said, following them towards the door. “Any time you’re in Carngheal, make sure and come visit me, eh? I hardly ever get visitors these days.” He grabbed Cai’s head and stroked the massive dog almost roughly, as if he didn’t want the hound to leave. Cai took the old man’s fussing without complaint and then wandered off to leave his scent on the next house along the track.

  “We’ll do that,” Bellicus said, but his mind was already moving on to other things, making plans from what they’d learned from the Dalriadan. “Farewell, friend, and may the gods bless your house.”

  “They already have,” Mochan smiled. “It’s not every day I enjoy the company of a druid and his travelling companions.”

  The old man watched as they walked away, back towards their campsite of the previous night and then, looking over his shoulder and seeing Mochan disappear inside his house, Duro shook his head. “I could hardly understand a damn word he was saying.”

  Bellicus laughed and lengthened his stride. “His accent was thick, I’ll grant you that, for he must have been one of the earliest settlers. The younger folk are more intelligible. Come on, we have one more thing to do today before it gets dark.”

  “The fort?” Duro asked, to a nod from the druid.

  “Aye. We should get a look at it – see what we’re up against.” He led the way to the north, eyes searching the land for signs of scouts marking their approach.

  “I thought you’d been there before.”

  “I have,” Bellicus agreed, relaxing into his stride, seeing no spies ahead of them. “It was a long time ago though, when I was just a young student. And I wasn’t marking things like entrances, wall heights, garrison numbers or any of that.”

  “I can answer any questions on those three points,” the centurion muttered darkly. “Too well defended, too high to climb up, and too many men to fight.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Bellicus agreed. “But there might be a weak spot that we can exploit.”

  Duro held his peace this time, merely raising his eyebrows as if he thought the druid mad, but he knew himself they had to get a look at the hillfort and the terrain around it. Besides, it was possible the gods would give them some sign, some hint of how to kill the Dalriadan king. Stranger things had happened since he’d been in the company of Bellicus after all.

  It wasn’t that long before the imposing bulk of Dunadd appeared on the grey horizon and Bellicus called Cai back close to him. Both men hunched instinctively, hoping to make themselves harder to spot.

  “It does look similar to Dun Breatann,” Duro noted as they left the main road and headed for a neighbouring hill, upon which stood a distinctive rock, or tree – it was impossible to tell which it was from this distance.

  “Similar, aye,” Bellicus said. “It’s a big hill with some walls and buildings on it. Nothing gets by you, eh?”

  “You know what I mean, you cheeky bastard,” Duro retorted. “I’ve seen other hill forts, but none looked more like Dun Breatann than that.” He nodded towards Dunadd, proud in its position amongst the low marshes and fields, appreciating its rather bleak majesty.

  They reached the strange feature upon the low hill they were climbing, finding it to be a rock which drew Bellicus’s attention immediately when he noticed strange symbols carved into it and recognised it as some kind of religious artefact or marker.

  “You get a good look at the fort,” he said. “I want to examine these markings for a moment.”

  Both men settled down to their tasks, Duro scanning the approach road towards Dunadd, his eyes tracing the route through the imposing gatehouse and up, past the few workshops and dwellings, taking in the thick walls of wood and stone, and at last fixing on the great hall at the summit.

  The druid muttered to himself as he tried to make sense of the images and inscriptions carved into the enigmatic rock which was about the same height as he was. Eventually, only able to decipher some of the message the thing had been left to impart, and finding it irrelevant to their task, he joined the centurion in mentally mapping Loarn mac Eirc’s seat of power.

  There was a citadel on the summit, not large, but sturdy and impressive even at this distance. Beneath that were two, maybe even three other levels with buildings of various design – houses, workshops, and defensive structures. The main entrance was cut from the solid rock, forming a passageway that led to the gatehouse. This was obviously a killing ground, where any attacking force would be penned in as they attempted to break through, pelted by arrows, javelins, rocks and whatever else the Dalriadans had to hand.

  The entire fortress was a succession of steps, narrow walkways, and natural defensive features cleverly supplemented and enhanced by stone walls. No wonder it had never been taken by force as far as Bellicus was aware.

  Yet, despite its obvious strength as a fortress, the smells carried on the afternoon breeze suggested pottery was being made within some of the workshops on the hill. This wasn’t merely a place for the king to spend the winter in safety, feasting and drinking the cold months away, it was also a centre of industry, administration, and Dalriadan culture as a whole.

  “See any ‘weak spots’ then, druid?” Duro asked with a sidelong glance at his companion, who shook his head.

  “None. Even if we could fly like those buzzards circling overhead, we’d still struggle to get in and out without one of the soldiers spearing us.”

  “What are we going to do then?”

  Bellicus rose up again, jerking his head for Cai to follow suit. “For now, we’ll return to camp and have a think.” He began making his way gingerly back down the hill, using the trees and bushes growing there to stop himself sliding, and also to mask him from any watching sentries in Dunadd. “Don’t lose hope yet, my friend – something will come up. It always does.”

  Duro didn’t reply and Bellicus could see why. The centurion was lost in thought, picturing the hillfort, trying to come up with some way of striking at its ruler without him and his companions being killed in the process. Ropes? Climbing equipment? Perhaps the far, hitherto unseen, side of the hill offered a better chance of ingress?

  Both men knew, realistically, that it would be impossible to enter the fortress by stealth, however. If they were going to capture or kill the Dalriadan king they would have to either gain entry to Dunadd by some clever subterfuge, perhaps acting the part of travelling musicians seeking shelter, or by forgetting the hillfort completely and finding another way to complete their mission.

  The sun was beginning to set, even though it wasn’t particularly late, so the three travellers picked up their pace once the fort was well behind them and made for their temporary home back amongst the marshes near Carngheal.

  The gods would offer some hope, or they would not, just as they did in every aspect of every man’s life. There was nothing to be gained by worrying about it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There was a full moon that night, hanging like a great ripe apple in a clear sky that revealed the full majesty of the heavens. Constellations and the strangely beautiful smudges that seemed to play in the periphery of one’s vision were all visible and Bellicus felt drawn to simply walk. Not to any particular destination, just to wander, taking in the glory of the night and the world around them.

  “Are you insane?” Duro demanded, when the druid informed him of his desire to go for a stroll. “We’re in a marsh! One wrong step could see you drowned, man. Even in the daylight this place is treacherous.”

  “I’ll pick my way slowly,” Bellicus promised, brandishing his staff. “This will probe ahead and show me where to step. Besides, the gods will guide me.” He gazed up at the silver face of the moon and knew he spoke the truth. “They are calling to me, and I’ve found it always pays to listen when that happens. You wait here with the centurion, all right, Cai? I don’t want you slipping into a
bog.”

  Duro stroked the big dog’s head, noting the sad expression, wondering, not for the first time, if Cai could understand his master’s words. “Don’t worry about us,” he said. “We’ll not move from here. Just you take care – maybe some god is calling to you, but it might be Lug in one of his trickster guises…”

  “I’ll be careful,” Bellicus grinned, teeth flashing in the moonlight. “If I meet a bent old man, I’ll know it’s the god trying to trick me.”

  “Or a beautiful nymph,” Duro replied, then returned his friend’s grin. “Although I’m not sure that would be such a bad thing – it’s a while since…”

  His face fell again as he realised what he was about to say, and thoughts of his murdered wife filled his head.

  “You rest,” Bellicus said, squeezing Duro’s shoulder and pulling his dark cloak around himself so he appeared nothing more than a shadow. “Have some more of that ale, but leave a drop for me. It’s a cold night without any clouds and I’ll need warming up when I return.”

  He pondered which direction to take for a moment, then decided to stick to the path they already knew. Taking any other way would surely lead to disaster so, although he truly felt like he was doing the right thing, there was no point in tempting fate and blundering off into the darkness like an inexperienced youngster.

  Still, even though they’d passed this way a number of times in the past two days, he stepped carefully, using the end of his staff to make sure he didn’t inadvertently blunder into a patch of standing water. He didn’t really expect it to be fatal even if he did, but it always paid to respect nature, especially on a night such as this, when the veil between the worlds felt like it might be pulled aside, revealing strange, wondrous secrets.

  With no clear idea of where he was going, the druid walked slowly, enjoying the crisp air and the near silence of the Dalriadan lands. A tawny owl cried, three times, not too far away and it brought back memories of his childhood on the island of Iova, learning to be a druid. For some reason Iova seemed to have more owls than anywhere else he’d ever lived, and it had always been a great pleasure to spot one in the branches of a tree, so big it would weigh down the branch it was using as a perch. He guessed there must be plenty of prey for such nocturnal hunters out here, relatively far away from the disruptive influence of humanity.